


helping hands (and words)

by angelicpdf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Group Therapy, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sex-Repulsed Sam Winchester, mentions of abuse, mentions of assault, touch repulsed sam winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicpdf/pseuds/angelicpdf
Summary: Sam goes to a support group for trauma survivors. Unedited.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	helping hands (and words)

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily based on my own experiences in a support group. Also please be wary of reading this as heavy topics are discussed.

Sam doesn’t really know what the point of this is, he doesn’t know why he took his and Cas’ truck, or why he stopped at this building, or why he went in. All he can think about is the fact that he can barely look at himself in the mirror, he can hardly bear touching Cas, or Jack. He hardly talks to them anymore, prefers to settle himself in his room or in a nook in the library and be still for long periods of time. Sam finds that it's easier to exist in the stillness. 

He doesn’t tell Cas he's leaving. He just leaves at a quarter to five and says to himself he’ll be back by dinner. He promises himself he’ll sit through it, just once, and then be free to never try anything like it again. So he parks the truck, and with his hands shoved into his pockets he enters the building. 

The entrance is warm and inviting, the receptionist is talking to a woman in a yellow dress and brown doc martens. He is suddenly reminded so intensely of another woman that wore yellow dresses and boots, another woman that would have been so damn happy that he was doing this for himself. He tries to think about her in a healthy way, to not let the grief stick to his veins like clots and stop him from moving. The thoughts of her settle and then move on under the lack of scrutiny. By the time he’s done managing his thoughts, the receptionist is beckoning him over, a small smile on her face and a clipboard in hand. 

She passes him the paperwork with a polite good afternoon and lets him take a seat in the squishy chairs to the left of the receptionist desk. He takes one look at some of the questions and suddenly can't breathe. The basics, name, age, gender, and HIPPA agreement are all there. Below it though, are questions like “What crisis/trauma would you like to process while here?” which just stops him in his tracks. 

He really doesn’t think he belongs here but he breathes through it and writes down a few basics, not mentioning the bigger picture, like his nephilim son that he’s sometimes afraid of, angel boyfriend that he can’t touch anymore, and the fact that his whole life has been one fucked up death or supernatural trauma after another. He writes down the words he knows and still can barely manage it- 

“Rape, abuse, gaslighting, hallucinations, touch/sex repulsed, emotional instability” are the words that end up on his paper, he wants to vomit when he reads through it. He can hardly bear how those little, pathetic words sum up his entire existence. He wants to toss the paperwork and leave. Instead he finished answering some other quick, but no less invasive, questions and turns in the sheets to the receptionist that just smiles. It grates on him, but it reminds him that he isn’t here alone, he hasn’t even started what he’s come here for. 

The receptionist points him to the room adjacent to the little nook he’d just sat in and tells him to take a seat inside and to feel free to grab a water before the session starts. 

He steps into the room and realizes he’s one of three men and six women. He feels too large and too shifty to be there. He watches as the girl in the yellow dress glances at him, slightly terrified. Something starts to kick into gear in his head and he quickly shoves himself into the chair farthest from her. His lungs can’t fill all the way for a few moments so he finds himself silently choking, he wishes Cas were there. He wishes he had told someone just so they could wait for him, so he could know someone was there, silent and unseen but there for him. 

The person that Sam presumes is the therapist sits right next to him, a shorter woman with bobbed black hair and round glasses. She smiles at him and at the man on her other side, a guy a few years younger than Sam, with buzzed hair and a tattoo of a cartoon character on his temple. They look at each other for a second and then the other man shifts his gaze away, also looking scared. Sam wants to scream, just a little bit. The therapist interrupts his thoughts, his sudden urge to ask what’s so damn scary about him, and starts to introduce herself. Her name is Becca, she’s an intern at the local psychiatric hospital and is in charge of this group alongside the doctor managing her internship. To him, she seems nice enough and she gets a couple laughs out of the group with a joke about her work hours. Then she looks around for a moment and says - 

“We’re all here for a reason, in this room, with these people, with ourselves, because something happened. We are all here, either by choice, or by medical recommendation and I want you all to know that there is absolutely no shame in being here and getting help.” Becca stops for a second and seems to look at everyone individually, as if making sure her words got through. She continues and makes everyone introduce themselves, starting with Sam. 

“Um, hi? I’m Sam, and I’m from Lawrence and I think I’m here to help me be closer with my loved ones.” He decides he hates everything he just said as soon as it comes out of his mouth, truth or not, it tastes sour on his tongue. Becca nods and thanks him for being here. 

They continue on in the circle, with names (Grace, Darcy, Jillian, Nathan, Anna, Kate, Faith, and Harrison) and reasons (trauma, rape, abuse, molestation, etc etc etc-) it makes Sam feel small and also a little less alone. He watches as the girl in the yellow dress (Jillian) starts to sob as the therapist assures her that her experiences don’t define her and that the way she’s still here today is a testament to her strength. Sam wants to think the same things about himself, he wants to hold Cas while they sleep, he wants to look at Jack and smile instead of cringe.

The urge to stay silent when it's his turn to share what brought him here nearly sends him reeling. But he sits up straight and looks around and then at Becca as she smiles encouragingly. 

“I um, had a lot happen to me over the past decade or more. So much that I hardly know where to start. I - I guess I think that it might all be in the past but it also just feels like it lives in my head, just waiting, and not letting me live the life I have now, or let me enjoy the time and space I have now. It - it just feels so suffocating and I want to get through it, at the very least to prove to myself that what I have now is something I am allowed to have.” He says in a rush, his heart suddenly beating and beating and beating so much that it aches. He got it out though, quick and freeing. Becca looks at him and beams a little, she leans a little bit over and thanks him for sharing, says - 

“Being here, Sam, is a very good first step to learning how to live beyond what’s happened to you, and that is something you should be proud of.” 

The session ends after some more talking, a short introduction on healthy coping skills, and after the paper containing the groups 12 week schedule is passed out. Sam holds the paper in his hands with all the delicacy he can manage and stops himself from crying, he can wait till he gets to the car. He hadn’t said much, but what he did say, what he heard back from Becca, was a good enough start for him. 

Once home, after the sobs wracked his body and the dryness of his throat starts to get to him, he walks into his home, marches up to the fridge and tacks on the little sheet of paper. 

He promises himself that he’ll go again next week.


End file.
